


cease and resist

by rire



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Demisexual Character, M/M, Pining, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26298016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rire/pseuds/rire
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi has never needed anyone. But for the first time in his life, hewants.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 34
Kudos: 367





	cease and resist

Here’s the thing: Sakusa knows what Atsumu wants. Everyone in the world knows what Atsumu wants. He parades around with his heart on his sleeve, which would be a dangerous way of existing, if Atsumu’s heart contained anything more complex than a hunger for volleyball and a thirst for sex. One of those impulses, Sakusa understands. As for the other? He’s learned to live with it, to his mild annoyance.

“So, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu says, waggling his eyebrows. “Have you been thinkin’ about that offer?” 

They’d gone out for yakiniku a month ago with the rest of MSBY. In the midst of conversation, after having copious amounts of liquor shoved at him by _Meian_ of all people, Sakusa had let down his guard enough to admit that it’d been years since he’d had sex. _Really?_ Atsumu had sneered loudly, getting all up in his personal space. _Well, I could end that dry spell for ya. I’ll show ya a good time, Omi-Omi. I’ll have ya screaming my name in three minutes flat._

He’d figured it was a drunken proclamation and ignored it. But Atsumu continued to bring it up whenever he could. It’d been a month since then, and Sakusa’s life had not known peace. 

He pointedly looks away from Atsumu, and keeps his eyes trained on the lockers in front of him as he changes. “I have not,” he answers flatly. 

“That’s too bad, Omi-kun. ‘Cause I have.” Atsumu leans a little closer, and places a finger on Sakusa’s shoulder blade. “Hey, how many freckles d’you think you’ve got? I’m countin’ like, seven from here.”

Sakusa jolts. In the whirl of motion, his elbow meets the flesh of Atsumu’s abdomen. Atsumu lets out a nasty _oof_ sound as the wind gets knocked out of him. Good. He deserves it. 

“Do not touch me,” says Sakusa. 

“Yeah, alright, alright,” says Atsumu, clutching his midriff in exaggerated pain. “Jeez, you’re like a rabid dog sometimes. Like, here I am, reaching out my hand ‘ta feed ya, and you get the wrong idea and bite it instead.” 

“Of the two of us,” Sakusa says calmly, “it’s not _me_ who has the wrong idea.” 

He changes into his clean clothes, slings his bag over his shoulder, and walks away.

* * *

It is strange, to live in a world full of people whose DNA is 99.9% similar to yours, and still understand so little about them. The line of thought that others followed— get attracted, have sex, fall in love, break up or get married— didn’t apply to Sakusa Kiyoomi. The only thing that mattered in his field of vision were the lines of the court. The arc of the ball, the split-second prediction of where it would land. Sports was logic. Sports made sense. People did not, and thus he had long since decided that _people_ were not for him.

He had received only one confession in his life. It had taken place in high school. Two girls, best friends. One had her sights set on Komori, and the other perhaps took pity on the presence at Komori’s side (though really, it was the other way around— Komori never stopped trailing him even after they grew up and expanded their circles). He was neutral towards her as a person. But he had turned her down flatly, stating that he did not want to touch an envelope clearly stained with someone else’s sweat. _I poured so much effort into writing this,_ she had said, with tears in her eyes, _and you don’t even want to look at it?_

 _Then put your effort into something that will pay off,_ he had replied. No one confessed to him after that.

 _You could’ve turned her down politely,_ Komori reprimanded him afterwards. He had been put into the awkward position of dating a girl whose best friend hated his cousin. _We all think you’re fine the way you are, but— you know, sometimes you could stand to mince words a bit. Give people little concessions, that sort of thing. Let them know you care._

 _Fine. I’ll remember that when I actively want somebody to be interested in me,_ Sakusa had said. _Which is never._

If you counted sex and love as the same thing, then Atsumu’s invitation was the second confession. To Sakusa, who found both to be equal nuisances, they were perhaps the same. But to Atsumu, they were different. 

Sakusa typically tunes out irrelevant chatter, but there was one conversation he once overheard in the locker room that tended to replay itself in his mind. 

“What, so you and him are over now?” Bokuto’s voice, always louder and more energetic, carried over the rest.

“I guess, yeah,” said Atsumu. His voice was a little lower, so that Sakusa had to strain to hear it. “Like, he was a good fuck, but when he started catchin’ feelings I was like, whoa, okay, no. I don’t want that.”

“Eh? Why not?”

“We’re too similar? Or maybe too different. ‘S just a bad idea all around. ‘M not really lookin’ for a relationship, anyway— if it’s just like, you’re hot, I’m hot, we’re into each other, then I can roll with that, but anything more? Nah, volleyball’s my number one.”

“Hmmm,” Hinata pipes up. “You should just find someone whose top priority is volleyball then, right? Or someone who gets that yours is. Or both, like Kageyama!”

“Ha! I wouldn’t dare to steal yer boyfriend, Shouyou.”

Through all of this Sakusa was rooted to the spot, unable to shake the feeling of being a stranger to the locker room that was technically _his,_ too. It wasn’t like he considered himself a part of their group. It was just that they were around the same age, and he was always being dragged into their antics, most often by Atsumu. But this time, it was like he wasn’t there at all.

On their way out, Atsumu swung his bag at Sakusa’s waist, which Sakusa dodged swiftly. Atsumu didn’t know how to greet people like a normal human being, instead insisting on _touching_ Sakusa whenever possible.

“Dinner at ‘Samu’s place. You comin’, Omi?”

Sakusa swallowed thickly. “Not tonight. I’m busy.”

“Alrighty then,” said Atsumu, opening the door and letting it slam shut behind him.

* * *

Sakusa likes volleyball because it is a series of predictable steps. Step one: eat well, sleep well, take care of yourself. Step two: practice, practice, practice. Step three: reap the results. 

He likes the way the ball sails over the net, likes predicting where it will land and getting the dig. He likes the way Atsumu is already waiting to set the ball he received, fingers perfectly poised to boldly set the ball off towards Sakusa again. And the feeling of the ball beneath his palm as he spikes, the wind whooshing past along with the wicked spin of his wrist, the way the ball hits the court with a loud, satisfying thud.

He likes all of it. But mostly, he likes the smile that Atsumu gives him, all teeth, eyes folded into happy little crescents. A dimple, just one, on the right side of his face.

Here’s the thing: Sakusa Kiyoomi knows that, at some point, he had developed feelings for Miya Atsumu.

He’s not sure when exactly it happened. Perhaps it was like the way he followed Komori to a volleyball gym as a kid, and found himself doing one thousand wall drills until he was satisfied. Once he got started on something, he couldn’t stop. His brain was wired that way. 

Attraction defied logic. But if he were to think about it in a series of steps— 

Step one: notice that Miya Atsumu has a dimple. Step two: catalogue this information. Step three: lie awake at night in bed, thinking about how soft the skin of Atsumu’s face might feel beneath your own hands.

Step one: play volleyball. Step two: fixate on the drop of sweat sliding down Atsumu’s temple, across the sharp curve of his jaw. Step three: instead of recoiling with disgust, your breath will catch in your throat and you will miss the receive you clearly could have gotten.

Step one: realize that the concept of having sex with Miya Atsumu is not an abstract idea but a distinct _possibility._ Step two: realize that, despite the ninety-nine percent of DNA you share with him, you are fundamentally too similar and too different to be happy together. Step three: lock your feelings in a box, never to be examined, never to be touched. 

* * *

Atsumu shows up at his door one night, a giant bruise mottling the side of his face and a grin tilting up the edge of his mouth.

“Heya, Omi-kun. Can I come in?” 

Sakusa blinks. He blinks again. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Oh, nothin’. I got into a fight with ‘Samu over somethin’ stupid and he kicked me out. You should see him, though! I fucked up his face twice as bad. So? Can I come in or what?” At Sakusa’s silence, Atsumu gasps in understanding, then holds up a bottle of hand sanitizer. “Oh! I used this before _and_ after I rang your doorbell.” 

Sakusa lets him in. 

“Can I sit on your couch?” 

“...Sure.” 

Atsumu dumps his bag and jacket onto the couch, and then sits. He throws his head back and lets out a long groan. “Ugh. God. It’s been a long-ass day.” 

There are ten times as many microbial cells in the human body as there are human cells. With Atsumu under his roof, this amount has gone up exponentially. But he’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking about how his hands tend to run cold while Atsumu’s body runs hot, and how perhaps it would help to soothe Atsumu's bruise if he were to put his hand right over it, on Atsumu’s jaw. No, he should offer an ice pack. That would be less weirdly intimate. 

“Ice?”

“Huh?”

“For your bruise.”

“Oh, sure, that’d be great. Thanks.” 

Sakusa fetches an ice pack from his fridge. He comes back, and sits next to Atsumu on the couch. He holds up his hand to pass the ice pack to Atsumu, but instead Atsumu leans in close, pressing his face to the ice pack. Nuzzling up against it like a cat. Sakusa almost drops it, but he doesn’t. He cups his hand around Atsumu’s jaw, and lets himself spiral around the twin sensations of hot and cold, shooting through his veins and up his spine. Up close, Atsumu looks no less gorgeous. His eyelashes are longer than they look from afar. 

Atsumu brings a hand up and holds Sakusa’s in his own. Sakusa’s pulse races under his skin. It’s impractical. They don’t need two hands supporting an ice pack. Touching for the sake of _touching_ is something that Sakusa still has trouble wrapping his head around, but for the first time he thinks that maybe _new_ is not always synonymous with _uncomfortable_.

“You’re real pretty, Omi,” says Atsumu. It’s sincere, Sakusa can tell. Instead of a shit-eating grin, he’s only got the barest hints of a smile, playing with the edge of his mouth. 

“Why?” says Sakusa, foolishly. “Why do you keep doing this?” Sakusa likes routine, but he hates _this_ one: putting his walls back up again and again while Atsumu continues to crash into them with reckless abandon. 

“I want you,” says Atsumu, like it’s simple. “Is that so hard to understand?”

 _Yes,_ Sakusa almost blurts out. Instead, he says, “What gives you any indication that I want you back?”

“Honestly? Nothing.” Atsumu huffs out a quiet laugh. “I’m just flyin’ by the seat of my pants here. I know I’m pushin’ my luck, but I can’t stop thinkin’ about you, and it's killin' me, so—” He trails off. _Uncertain_ is a new look on Atsumu’s face, so often hardened with conviction and determination. 

Maybe Sakusa’s been going about this the wrong way. If he can’t curb the disease called attraction, then he’ll treat it like a vaccine. He’ll get a dose— a small, safe dose— if that’s what it’ll take to make himself immune. Maybe then he'll be able to move on.

 _Just once._ That’s his justification for the way he leans in and presses his mouth against Atsumu’s. _Just once._ That’s the line of thought he clings to as Atsumu melts into him with an eager noise. Something shifts between them, as Atsumu slides open-mouthed kisses down his neck, sucks at his collarbone, pushes up the hem of his shirt and flattens his well-trained palms against Sakusa’s chest.

Atsumu devours him like he’s been waiting for it. He’s good, Sakusa admits— Atsumu may be confident, but never once has it been baseless. He's just the right amount of teasing in the way he flicks his wrist over Sakusa’s cock, just the right amount of slow as he slips his fingers inside of Sakusa and coaxes him open. It hurts a little when he finally fucks into him. No one has been inside him in years. Not since he tried it once and decided once was enough. But this? This is different. This is fire, consuming him from the inside out. He digs his nails into Atsumu’s back and feels foreign sounds being ripped from his throat every time Atsumu’s cock pounds into him, reaches the depths of him, places even _he_ doesn’t want to acknowledge. 

It feels like he’s opened up his ribcage and bore his insides for Atsumu to see. It’s awful. But he _burns_ when Atsumu groans into the crook of his neck, when he spits out choked-off pieces of Sakusa’s name like a prayer and comes hard, filling him up, hot and messy and everything Sakusa never knew he could want.

* * *

Atsumu stands in front of Sakusa's mirror, observes the claw marks on his back, and whistles. A satisfactory reward for the long chase. Here’s the thing: To Miya Atsumu, Sakusa Kiyoomi was just another challenge. He won’t understand the way Sakusa had to cast aside his entire _being_ for this one night. It’s better if he doesn’t.

When Sakusa gets out of the shower, Atsumu is still there, naked in Sakusa’s bed with the covers slung haphazardly over his lower body in some semblance of decency. And instead of the urge to kick him out, Sakusa only feels the urge to slide in next to him under the covers. It’s disgusting. 

“Oh, Omi. You done with the shower? Can I borrow it?”

“No. Go home and use your own.” 

“What? But I waited for half an hour for you to finish ‘cause I thought it’d be my turn next.” 

Sakusa feels his tongue in his mouth. Rolls it around, and contemplates. _Sometimes you could stand to mince words a bit. Give people little concessions, that sort of thing. Let them know you care._ “Fine,” says Sakusa. “Go ahead.” 

“Oh, sweet!” Atsumu shoots up out of the bed and dashes towards the shower. “Thanks, Omi-Omi. Promise I won’t be long.” 

Sakusa perches himself on the edge of the bed. The smell of sex still pervades the room. A phone on the nightstand, buzzing with a new text message. A sports bag and MSBY Black Jackals jacket on his couch. All areas that he’ll have to disinfect once Atsumu is gone. That’s what happens when you let someone in. To your home. To your— 

Atsumu’s phone screen lights up again, so he leans over and looks at it on impulse. Between the LINE notifications popping up, he can see that Atsumu’s lockscreen is a selfie the four of them took at yakiniku. Bokuto and Atsumu taking up most of the space, doing the signature Jackals claw pose. Hinata poking his head out over Bokuto’s spiky hair with a double-peace sign, barely visible because of his height, and Sakusa sulking in the back. It’s hard to read the time against Sakusa’s black hair. What a pointless and impractical lock screen, Sakusa thinks to himself.

“Omi? Are you snooping at my phone?” 

Sakusa’s head jerks up. Atsumu’s peering out at him, the bathroom door cracked open.

“No,” says Sakusa. “It just wouldn’t stop buzzing.” 

Atsumu doesn’t get annoyed, though. Not the way Sakusa would if he ever thought anyone was invading his privacy. “Ah, that’s probably ‘Samu sayin’ sorry and beggin’ me to forgive him. Just ignore it. Hey, I was just gonna ask which products I can use? I won’t touch ‘em unless you want me to.” 

It’s weird, the concept of Miya Atsumu respecting somebody’s boundaries. Sakusa’s heart pounds in his throat. He's not immune. Far from it. He's on the verge of a breakdown, and all the while Miya Atsumu is staring at him, completely unaware of the way his brown eyes burn like brands against Sakusa's skin.

Sakusa clears his throat. “The shower gel and the shampoo are fine.” 

“Okay, gotcha.” 

Atsumu goes back in. Over the sound of the water running, Sakusa hears the slightly off-key humming of a catchy pop tune. The phone keeps buzzing until it comes to a stop. Sakusa sits on the edge of the bed for a long while, avoiding Atsumu’s side of the bed, before finally rolling onto his back and letting his eyes fall shut. Behind his eyelids, the world blooms into colour, a blinding, insidious yellow.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated <3
> 
> follow me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/redbeantofu) for more sakuatsu brainrot


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